


permission for a little bit more

by peachboyf



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-04
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:40:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachboyf/pseuds/peachboyf
Summary: Crowley finally darts his eyes away. His hand comes up to adjust his glasses, and he coughs out a soft ahem. He can still feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, dragging along the line of his cheek bone. He rubs his hand over the spot before finding his voice.“Lead the way, Angel.”





	permission for a little bit more

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever wonder if there will be a time you aren't terrified of strong emotions? i have been obsessed with the idea of azicrow dancing together since my pal introduced me to the show. this is gibberish but it's wholesome and i hope you like it
> 
> enjoy!

With the apocalypse taken care of at the moment as well as Heaven and Hell leaving them be, neither of them are busy. Their schedules are clear in that restless, unnerving sort of way. For now.

But Crowley won’t think about that if he doesn’t have to.

Crowley knows they don’t have anything to do, and he knows that he’ll have to find some entertainment eventually. By himself. Aziraphale will cut their time short, as usual. (_We can’t spend that much time together, Crowley. It’ll look… bad._) He braces himself for disappointment, since he’s sure Aziraphale will flutter and stutter until he’s left Crowley alone. It’s the routine, and Crowley sticks with it if only for his angel’s sake. As best he can, at least. He lets his gaze lilt along Aziraphale’s form, flitting from point to point but never leaving him. Crowley takes in the crisp edges of his suit, the softness of his cheeks, and the curl of his hair. He doesn’t know how long it’ll be before he sees the sight again.

“It’s a, hm, nice evening for a walk,” Aziraphale says, and the sentence is open ended. His gaze is on the ground, a spot just next to Crowley’s boot. Crowley is rarely surprised, especially not by Aziraphale, but in the aftermath of thwarting the apocalypse maybe things will be different.

Nothing feels changed. The setting sun frames Aziraphale’s hair in a way that Crowley has watched, appreciated, memorized a thousand times. It shines like a halo, and Crowley nearly hisses as he banishes the thought. It’s too cheesy for his taste, though Aziraphale is gorgeous like this. His silhouette is darkened, all roundness and awkward stances.

Crowley adjusts his stance, swaying close enough that Aziraphale looks up out of reflex. Crowley tilts his head down so they make eye contact above his glasses. Aziraphale doesn’t look away. He stares at Crowley, standing outside of the restaurant in the dying light of evening. (_Did we really spend that long in that restaurant?_) Crowley can see emotions he’s never really associated with Aziraphale reflecting back at him. Desire, confidence, other things he can’t quite place, even with all his years backing him.

Crowley finally darts his eyes away. His hand comes up to adjust his glasses, and he coughs out a soft ahem. He can still feel Aziraphale’s eyes on him, dragging along the line of his cheek bone. He rubs his hand over the spot before finding his voice. 

“Lead the way, Angel.” 

A softness lights Aziraphale’s smile, Crowley can feel it in the warmth, the light that shines off him. Crowley glances up, his cheeks curving in a mirror. Their stare seems to last a lifetime before Aziraphale realizes they’re supposed to be walking. He blinks too many times then turns away, setting into an aimless wander. Crowley takes two large steps to catch up, and matches his pace.

They peek at each other during the walk, keeping mostly silent. Crowley hums in response to the occasional observation from Aziraphale. They keep close to each other, enough that their hands would brush if Crowley didn’t keep his in his pockets. (_Should I hold his hand? Would he want me to?_) Crowley thinks of the other times they’ve held hands, or something close to it. Most were out of necessity. The most recent memory of bleeding back into his own body until they were themselves again, hands clasped in the gentlest hold imaginable. Such a simple touch, yet it felt like so much. He misses the intimacy of it.

Crowley slides his hand from his pocket, gazing down at it as he walks. Aziraphale is steering them through a park now. He’s looking at the trees, lost to Crowley’s internal struggle. 

Crowley lets his hand hang down by his side, but Aziraphale veers off. He’s striding towards a gazebo centered in a semicircle of squat, leafy trees. Crowley feels disappointed for a moment before music filters into his hearing. There’s a sweet instrumental version of some love song playing. A trumpeter stands before a full horn section and the odds and ends that complete a big band. He nods out the rhythm of the song, swaying in time. Then, once he hears something only for him, he plays. His eyes are closed, and his foot taps out the tempo now. The solo is high and slow. It doesn’t quite mesh with the backing, but Crowley resonates with it. It strikes a chord in him, leaves him moved with the subtle chaos of it. 

Aziraphale surprises him again in so little time. He leaves Crowley a little speechless when he turns to him. The edges of his eyes are wrinkled with a hidden smile. Aziraphale extends his hand, palm heavenward and fingers curled. Crowley stares at that hand, mind blanked of what it might mean. Aziraphale’s nails are clean not a spec of dirt under them, and his palm looks so inviting.

“If you would humor me?”

Crowley doesn’t say a word, but he does take the offer. It feels like dying as Aziraphale pulls him in. Crowley wonders if he’s made a mistake in signing himself away so wholly. His heart is cradled between Aziraphale’s steady hands, and Crowley can’t breath with the thought. Though he doesn’t necessarily need to in the long run. The arm round his waist is settled so lightly, but Crowley’s awareness hones in on it. That and the strong grip around his right hand, where Aziraphale holds it aloft.

There is no space between their bodies, and Crowley can’t help the way he wishes for even less.

Aziraphale steps into him, leading Crowley into a waltz with ease. Crowley knows how to dance (_I remember learning this for him, some time long ago._), but his feet drag. He is clumsy, gangly next to Aziraphale’s calm movements. Aziraphale doesn’t say anything when Crowley’s boots catch his toes, and Crowley doesn’t apologize either. He doesn’t know if he could, with the way his tongue lies in his mouth like lead. Aziraphale has left him breathless and unable to muster a thought, let alone a word. Crowley can feel pinked heat in his face, though he’ll never be sure if it shows. He can’t hear the music over the rush of blood in his ears, and that’s okay. Aziraphale keeps him tethered, keeps him moving in time. Neither of them are good, but the step is simple enough that it doesn’t matter in the end. As long as they hold each other close the moment is what it needs to be.

Aziraphale glances up from Crowley’s chest to meet his eyes. He finds Crowley’s gaze like he’s looking straight through his glasses, and Crowley wants to hide. He wants to burrow into the ground never to be seen again. Aziraphale’s smile is the only thing that keeps him from doing just that. Like the sun from behind a cloud, it hints at another beautiful day on the morrow.

The closeness has his heart racing because this intimacy is like holding hands but centuries over. It makes Crowley remember the moments over those centuries. The ones that felt like progress, not in leaps and bounds, but in steps so small you don’t notice them. Not until you’ve looked back to see how far you’ve come. It keeps him on his toes, and brimming with excitement, passion, _love_. Too, too much for this moment with it’s stirring trumpet and tart violin. Crowley will break apart under the pressure of the things he’s been holding in, he’s sure.

Then, Aziraphale. 

He leisures his grip on Crowley’s hand, turning until their fingers can slot together. The hand on Crowley’s upper back slides down, hooking around his hip. Without thought Crowley snakes his hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder onto his nape. His fingers thread through the thick curls at the bottom of his hairline, and Crowley breathes. He breathes in Aziraphale, and the space between them is gone.

Crowley is ink and old paper. He is the wish wrapped around a dandelion stem. He is the last breath of contentment for a soul heavenbound. He is soft and plain and aware. He is hesitant. He is regretful. He is heavy. He is whole for the first time in a long, long time. The shape of his grace acts as if it’s finally filled, a wound healed or on the way to healing.

Distantly, the music comes to a smooth crescendo before fading entirely. There is a break, where applause might be if any other patrons were in the park. Silence is broken as Crowley’s hearing reasserts itself. The soft scrape of chairs as the musicians adjust, change their sheet music, and begin anew is accompanied by nature’s own tune. She reflects their art with the chattering of bugs, the rustle of wind, the sweet tenor of something nocturnal. Scent comes next with taste coupled with it in the fresh of grass, and the constant petrichor of their home. Touch tells him that he’s on his knees, Aziraphale’s face pressed tight to his chest. As Crowley blinks his eyes clear, sight gives him the impression of curls through tinted lenses.

The wholeness is almost permeable, it makes him up now. 

Crowley fears as he pulls back. He doesn’t want to, but he has to know. (Will I lose myself without him?) Careful as he extracts himself, Crowley sits back. He hold Aziraphale away from himself with their still tangled fingers. Aziraphale looks up at him, dark eyes swelling like Crowley lassoed the moon to give him. Crowley’s fear grows enough to choke him as he unlaces his fingers from Aziraphale.

Nothing happens. At least, nothing bad.

Crowley feels the sting of loss, but it isn’t of his newfound wholeness. He expected something that didn’t come. He expected to… miss Aziraphale, like he always had. Even when Aziraphale had been by his side, there was always a longing. A sense that something was missing, that something always would be. Crowley stares.

He stares and stares, until he feels he must blink. Aziraphale is looking back at him. He seems confused, yet content, and Crowley find he feels the same. Crowley stands, offering Aziraphale a hand up and the smallest miracle to dust him off. Aziraphale gives him a genuine smile in return, the same smile he always gives Crowley. The one with the stars from the skies planted there. Crowley smirks back, brow a tad too relaxed for it to be a truly mischievous. Aziraphale take Crowley’s face between his hands, and holds Crowley so gentle as they listen to the opening notes of the next song.


End file.
